


2AM Take Down

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: LowRes [2]
Category: Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: Adrenaline, Car Chases, Cock Piercing, F/M, Public Sex, Wrench's humor, defacement of property
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10868793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anon asked: Dude have you written any Wrench fics? If not can you cook up something? I know you're the one for that kind of stuff. Like maybe you and Wrench are trying to run away from cops or sum and after that adrenaline kicks in and you know the rest ;)Can do Anon, can fucking do. Be warned, I have yet to beat the game and experience all that Wrench has to offer, but I think I got his voice down well enough.Also, I drew Wrench just for the fuck of it here ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/post/160419007288/i-was-working-on-a-fic-request-for-wrench-andNo warnings.





	2AM Take Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



Even in the back parking lot of the liquor store, with the one street lamp humming noisily a few feet away, you suspect that the metaphorical shit is about to hit the fan. By now, Wrench would have found trouble. That peak of mayhem hasn't come yet and usually, given how much he's already crammed into such a short amount of time, it should have peaked by now. At the very least someone should have caught them, well him really - just Wrench - cracking open ATMs and leaving behind little surprises for the next sheep to make a withdrawal.

Under the guise of checking out Marcus’ latest selfie, you tilt your gaze over to said anarchist, sucking in your cheeks as he stands against the liquor store wall, tapping his heel and mumbling the lyrics to Dead Kennedys ‘Riot.'

Across the street, you can hear a car honk it's horn, squealing tires taking a hard turn around the intersection. It’s dead out, but there is fuck all out here in the burbs but shops that closed at five and quiet two-lane roads. 

And you were so close to that couch in Headquarters, only for Wrench to turn the car around and park you both here… for another prank. 

Didn’t he have something better to do? - Like, stalk that crush of his? You frown, huddle around your phone and flip through bullshit while he sings off-key.

“... tomorrow you're homeless; tonight is a blast! Ha’haaaa… haaa,” he pauses, kicks a heel up on the wall and rolls those double-x’s at you, “So, how’d last night with lover boy go?”

You almost miss the single quotes on his display before his mask settles on two question marks. On his phone screen, you can see he’s running a bypass while he throws the question, meant for Sitara, at you. 

“Wrong girl, Wrench. That was Sitara that had the steamy date, and it was a fivesome which, if you were paying any attention, is already online. Those dudes pwned her.” It was worth it just to see his mask drop into equal signs before the question marks come back.

“Who? Wait a second, Marky Mark said it was you that had the fivesome… I mean the date not a - wait, Sitara got-”

“I’m just kidding… but no,” you mumble, swiping past a post from Josh about needing more drone schematics, “I didn’t have the date. Sitara did, and I hear it went well.”

Wrench looks at you with stars, but you don’t see past the feed updating on your phone. Speaking of which, Sitara just commented on Marcus’ selfie, and not from Headquarters. Where could she be at this hour? 

Oh man, you grin. But… it's not like you can really gloat though because you’re stuck wreaking havoc with Wrench in the early hours of the morning.

A distant car alarm begins honking as you click off your phone and shove it down in your front pocket. 

Air gushes in over a line of hedges bordering the back parking lot, trapping cold wind between your stomach and the loose tank you’d thrown on. It feels good despite the mild temperature. 

A police siren follows after the car alarm, and you twist around to lean a shoulder on the wall, blinking sleepily over at Wrench as he grumbles and paces, stopping every once in awhile to kick the budget power box buried in the concrete. If he keeps it up the power will short out, and both of you would be in deeper shit than if some wayward cop noticed you two ‘loitering.’

Either way, there's trouble on the horizon. 

Wrench was overdue for a whirlwind, anyway… you just weren't sure you had it in you to survive one of his famous roller coasters. He did everything with the dial turned to eleven and you… well, there was a reason Sitara called you LowRes. You could appreciate Wrench’s style, but you were happier on the couch with a white cup of coffee and code to write. More like Josh in that respect, but without his quiet genius to make you stand out amongst the crowd.

You had to admit; sometimes you liked being the wallflower of the group. It was a peaceful existence. Quiet. But when did you ever feel that way when Wrench was around? He’s like a bug infested fluorescent bulb in some backwoods swampy pit during a hot, wet summer night; attracting non-stop trouble. 

In the past hour, after making the decision to text him for a ride back to Headquarters rather than order a car, he’s stopped four times for bullshit pranks with just enough time to squeeze in an energy slurry and some french fries. All things you watched with a side eye on him as he’d shoved greasy stick and the bendy straw under his mask, munching and/or slurping away with animated relish.

This is all just a big waste of time and manpower that was better spent working on more important things. Pointless - but fuck you if you ever said that aloud. 

Which you sort of did already. 

You might have mentioned you prefer that he drop you off before tearing up the city - said you had an algorithm to test run as he pulled over for the second time. You'd stared at him with a frown over an army jacket collar as he twisted in the car seat and gave you a long rundown about how “life was too short” and “you know, you really need to take the stick out of your ass…” to which he offered you a mini bottle of engine grease from his back pocket, shaking it with double carets. 

You imagined he was grinning behind the mask too, which just troubled you further. 

It's nice knowing he likes stealing you for his midnight wrecks but you've had a long night already, and you're tired and in all honesty, not in the mood for any more pranks. Fuck the algorithm at this point. All you want is to make yourself into a flannel burrito and sleep on the couch until that afternoon. 

By now you’d be home if you had just walked there. It probably would have been the safer decision too, if you can even imagine that, given some of the less monitored streets of San Francisco at the ripe hour of… oh, what time was it, even?

You peer down, pulling up your phone with a sullen look. For fuck’s sake...

“It’s two-twenty four in the damn morning, Wrench,” you sigh, throwing your head back into the stucco wall of the liquor store’s back wall, glaring at the blinking light of a passing plane beyond the clouds. It's red static ping makes you wonder if Marcus could hack into the control ports on that beast from down here. Hell, if he couldn’t, maybe you could experiment with one of Wrench’s burners and a signal booster. 

“Yeah, but think about it this way,” the walking time-bomb beside you laments - all earnest candor, though two carets pop up on his display, “it’s whatever time you want it to be somewhere. Think happy thoughts, alright, I'm almost in. Oh, and while you're standing there, you wanna map out a route to Jimbo’s Garage for me. They installed a new power main on the roof that controls the intersection right by the fucking shop. Can you believe it?! And to think 2.0 is supposed to make everyone cream their jeans.”

“That's what she said,” you add, keeping the smile off your face as he chuckles; slinging a “fucking beautiful” your way. 

The idea of heading anywhere except the couch doesn't excite you, but Wrench is infectious and if he wants to set the traffic lights to blink out ‘Do You Know The Muffin Man,' then you figure another thirty minutes without sleep won't kill you. 

There’s a quiet pause, filled only with the boops and beeps of his phone and then nothing. 

You turn your head to find him with mad-slashes; his shoulders slumped, and the phone held up high against the studs of his mask. Even without seeing his face, you can tell he's frowning. He reeks of tension. 

“… what happened this time?” you try, wincing at what could only be a hardass firewall or some shit if it’s made Wrench go all radio-silent on you. A block like that would just mean more wait, or worse… you'd have to bust out your own code to speed this along. 

“I’ve run out of jokes,” he deadpans; mask displaying two inward pointing arrows and then double-x's, “you got anything that doesn't sound too… nerdy? I was thinking ‘raging crackhead meme,’ but that’s sooo last season.”

Last season? Who was he? Besides, what did it matter what joke it was? The whole point was hacking the ATM with a virus - it didn’t need a punch-line. And really. Too nerdy? As if he didn't go around spouting out lines from every Schwarzenegger movie, with the voice as well!

You glare, folding your arms level under your breasts and mutter, “You’re aware I need thrash music and caffeine to come up with anything remotely funny.” 

He nods, allowing you the precious gift of peering at his phone, close enough to smell the stale reek of the beers from that evening and something acrid like wet metal - or wet dog, you think with a slight smirk. 

The mess on his phone is nearly illegible - so you laugh.

Wrench jerks his phone away with a flourish, “Remind me to get you improv classes, you humorless barbarian. It's insulting that someone can be so cute but… well, there ain't no pretty way to say it, but you really need a spa day.”

Cute, huh? 

Embarrassment, the likes of which only Wrench can cause, fills your cheeks. You rub a hand over your nose, blocking out the blush on your cheeks. He's not even looking, too busy huffing in put-upon-insult before stomping a three-sixty circle and then - letting his arms dangle and his knees pump up a few times - he starts bouncing from foot to foot. 

“Let the power of comedy flow through me, oh’ dark lords,” he breathes in all seriousness, miming waves crashing over his hooded head as he marches in position. Two mad slashes pop up on his display. 

You’ve seen him do this enough not to be overly worried about his brain exploding. It’s his signature warm-up. Speeds up the thinking juice, he’d informed you the first time you’d gaped at him. 

When you were new and… politely annoyed by his perverted, energetic behavior, he had given you an in-depth explanation of how rigorous “bouncing” and “thrusting” got the blood pumping to the brain. Wrench also informed you that it helped if he thought about boning while he did it. Figures.

“Brrrrr-rrrrrr’ruff!” he growls, shaking out his shoulders.

Wrench makes a deep whine that ebbs into a coarse, static roar. His mask blinks question marks, then double-x's and finally exclamation marks in a flickering flash.

He pauses, slapping an open pointer finger and rigid thumb under the spiky chin of his mask, turning towards you with a tilt to his hips as if he's ready to lay down some mad pearls of wisdom.

“Do you think the average denizen would understand the similarities between a compact Yautja combi-stick and a dildo?” he asks with those double-x’s but shakes his head dramatically before you can open your mouth, “eh’ doesn’t matter.”

He waves you in a dismissive gesture, “I’m doing the bit anyway. Fuck it!”

“All this for a joke no one’s gonna get but you? Hell, I love those netted muscle freaks more than you, plus I have a combi-stick replica and I still don’t see what’s so funny about it,” you mumble it over his shoulder, watching him thumb the virus into the ATM through the chip nestled under the power box. 

Wrench just shrugs a shoulder and sends the little code on its way, whispering, “Go forth my child and confuse someone… very, very much. Thank you, and sent!”

He pockets his phone and plants his fists on his hips. The stark black of his hand tattoos roll over the hard tendons in his knuckles. You stare for just a second, before looking up to catch his mask shift emotes so quickly it's immediately suspicious. 

Wrench clears his throat awkwardly, and you raise a brow in question. You’d missed something telling on his mask just then, you can feel it. 

“Wouldn’t it be awesome if someone actually got it, though?! Like, that’s how you find your soulmate… or you know, a fuck buddy at the very least,” he whistles and takes an easy step towards you. Double carets pop up and with a head tilt, Wrench finger-guns your forehead with a flat, robotic “boop” just as his mask gives you a quick tilde-caret wink. 

For some reason, the poke of his finger and the gesture makes your cheeks hot again, so instead of facing him while he shamelessly flirts, you turn around on a heel, shuffling your feet back to the car. At the rate this is going you’ll just end up embarrassing yourself, blushing like a fool. 

Why’s he gotta be such a handful all the time? He does this often enough. Casual flirt - fucking anarchist and professional not-a-fuck-giver. He just needs to ask that stupid waitress out already before you go and make a fool of yourself by asking him out.... 

“Come’on, LowRes!” He laughs, slapping his thighs, “Have a sense of adventure why don’t you? We’re DedSec! Toppling the structures of society. Waging war on the eyes that bind. Learn to live a little and don't be such a fucking party pooper, it's unbecoming.”

Pointless waste of time, you think as he jogs up behind you and throws an arm around your shoulders, swaying you both as he laughs and squeezes the meat of your arm with those long, iron-pinching fingers of his. 

Bastard tickled your little crush on him into a horny tumble once again, and without any other option that doesn’t feel too ambitious, you shrug him off even though he makes another over-the-top whine at your reaction.

“Look, it's been a long night so why don't you… just-” you start, only to pause with a pinched expression, glaring into nothingness…

“Awe. When I make that face, it’s usually gas pains. Was it that pizza sundae last night? Because I’ve had ‘just’ the worst-”

“Listen!” You whisper, cutting him off. 

His mask switches to question marks, but he doesn’t make a sound. That's one of his many admirable qualities: when things get serious he knows it, and there's no one better you'd rather have around when that happens. 

In the relative quiet, you listen. 

That distant whimper of noise tickles your ears. You blink, standing still in the dark patch of the parking lot beside the car as the sound of… a tracer alarm blares inside the liquor store. What follows are police sirens. 

Your eyes widen - heart lurching like a racecar shoved into first gear - and look over at Wrench with those exclamation LED’s of his mimicking your own expression of panic. 

Shit!

“Fuck!” You both shout in unison. 

He makes a flourish with his hands while you jerk into a hard spin. With a gasping breath, you throw yourself into the passenger seat, bouncing up and down on your ass as Wrench slams the driver-side door shut behind him and cranks the engine. He reverses in a squeal of rubber and slams down on the gas pedal, speeding you both out of the liquor store just in time for flashing red n' blues to swerve around the corner behind you. 

In the rearview mirror, you see the lone cop car as another cruiser joins it from the left. Seriously?!

Ten seconds later a third one nearly pops a wheelie trying to join the chase. 

“Fuck,” you breath, grabbing the dash and the headrest of Wrench’s seat, staring wide-eyed at the traffic as he maneuvers through it; red brake lights sliding within the bright glow of headlights, “... fuck! Fucking-shit, Wrench. How do you miss a failsafe?!” 

Wrench doesn’t say a word, probably best since he’s going seventy miles an hour down a two lane road with three cops on their tail, but even though the adrenaline is rushing up in your stomach - tugging at your throat - you can't stop reminding yourself that you should be on the couch right now! Safe and warm and drooling inside your flannel burrito, but now? Now!? - you were in the middle of a police chase as Wrench slams his foot on the break and takes a hard turn to the right. 

You scream as darkness swallows the inside of the car and your body slams to the left, fingers losing their grip. Heat and something that smells like musk and your kid brother’s old room sends you into another frenzy. You pull at firm thighs and arch your back. 

A cast of fresh neon-lights drenches the car and Wrench’s crotch as you stare down at it, noting the grease stains and that little burn hole where the red of his boxers shows. 

“Whoops,” he comments as you gasp and pull your head out of his lap - too shocked to realize your nose and his dick had been separated by only a half-inch of clothing. 

A car horn blares as he veers left - the momentum thrusting you back against the passenger car door. For some fucking reason, you decided that the situation has gone from terrifying to absurd, and laugh as Wrench weaves through traffic like a getaway driver, humming the Star Wars opening. 

“Hey!” you shout above the sirens and car honks, bracing better this time as he tears to the right down a dim parking garage, “Do you use Old Spice?!”

“Hm?” Wrench pauses, daring a quick glance at you and the stupid half grin on your face as your heart speeds on a collision course with your sternum.

His mask emotes between question marks, at-symbols and then double zeros, “It's the only body wash around with relatable commercials. What? - you looking to change brands or… oh… wow... talk about an icebreaker. I didn’t think this is the way you’d meet Wrench Jr. Jr.”

Mind going a mile a minute, you forgot you'd even asked him a question while the cement parking lot throws back the sounds from the gunning car tenfold, “Talk about-wait, what?!” 

Wrench skids over a speed bump, turns the car a full one-eighty and pushes on the brakes to park when a cop car flies out of nowhere and rams into the rear bumper sending you and Wrench into a tailspin. 

For a second your brain runs on backup power. 

Sparks fly up on your side of the car as it creams down the concrete wall, skidding down a line of cars until Wrench twists the wheel and throws the backend into a thick column. Glass shatters but you don't pay attention to where. 

The car stops dead. A smell like burning plastic melts inside your nostrils. 

You've never been in a car crash.

As reality and your situation comes rushing back, you blink, hyper aware of everything as if the world is running in slow-mo. Beside you Wrench growls in a rumble of static, turning, raising an arm up… his palm opens against the cusp of your vision, nearly grazing your cheek when your senses fire on all cylinders and the sirens stab inside your skull - the danger salts your fear, and with a snarl, you pull at his seat belt.

Inside the mask, you hear him make a trembling sound. At-symbols blink down at you. 

His part-synthesized voice folds around a quick, “... in the back seat… get the stun gun.”

It's not in the backseat, probably got throw down to the floor, or under a seat and there's no time to find it. 

You run a quick look down his body, looking for injuries but find none. 

“Hurt - are you hurt?!” He demands. 

You shake your head, no. With the passenger door crushed from the crash, you climb over his lap and kick the driver side door open with an adrenaline-soaked thrust. This might be a typical event for him, which explains why he misunderstands your movement - explains why he lays his hands on your stretched thigh and curved back while you stick your head out the car, looking for the cops. 

Wrench makes another weird sound behind the mask as you sit back over his thighs, pressed close with the steering wheel digging into your spine. 

Clear, for now, you realize, giving one more run down. Wrench blinks stars which you never understood the meaning behind, but that's the last thing that worries you right now. 

“Come on,” you feel a bit hardcore as you brace a heel on the pavement, tugging him along but he moves too fast, and you stumble, hitting the outside world on your knees while Wrench falls on top of you, spikes on the back of your neck.

“Freeze!”

The cops.

“No thank-you!” Wrench shouts, chest to your back for a split second before he's up and on his feet in a flash. 

You lift your head up briefly to see him flip the lone office the bird.

Everyone told you Wrench had a death wish, but you never realized how true that was until he’s standing there with his middle finger pointed at a loaded gun.

Wrench twists at the hips, bends and snatches you up around the waist, hoisting you to your feet before wrangling your wrist in a bruising grip and just like that the both of you are running… from the fucking cops. The police?! 

That pristine record you’ve kept, despite your years of illegal shenanigans, is about to be tarnished; worthless after everything. You’re so fucked, and it’s all Wrench's fault. You were fine being a shut-in. Chaos was his bag, not yours and now… now...

“I’m gonna put your balls in a fucking vice, Wrench!” you curse, pounding the ground beside him, feeling numb with adrenaline and some sort of clean high you’ve never felt before, “Then I'm gonna strap you to the wrench bench… gonna get that sledgehammer…”

“You know how hard it is running at half-mast?! Difficult! Stop talking dirty to me and-oh! Here, here, here!!” 

He jerks you, pulling a muscle in your shoulder as the both of you kick up dust down an alley caked in graffiti and power boxes. Wrench slows the getaway just long enough to tug out his phone and send a timed shock to the bottom most box. You don't see the static take down one of the officers, just hear the discharge and muted scream behind you. 

“Here. Over here,” Wrench whispers hard through his mask. 

When this is over, you're gonna make him your TLC bitch. With all this jerking and dragging, your shoulder’s already singing, and the only thought that keeps you from lashing out is how you're gonna make him rotate heat and cold to the pulled muscle until it stops hurting. Make him your get-well slave for all the trouble he’s caused you tonight.

By the time residential rooftops poke up over the blistering lights of the city, your thighs burn, and one gunshot has already gone off somewhere behind you. The sound of it still rings in your ears.

They must have picked up Wrench’s profile after the hack - must have seen his record and sent the cavalry after them because no way was this worth a stupid ATM prank and you’re less recognizable than he is. Plus, no way could they have hacked into your phones. DedSec firewalls were too beefy for them…

You pause, gulping down lungfuls of breath as Wrench bounces back against a chainlink fence, immediately kicking the bottom until it rips from the frame. You watch, counting your heartbeats, as he tears the lattice work up and ducks through, lifting it up for you to dart in after him, and dart through you do not. Your jeans snag, yanking you back so hard you nearly fall flat on your face if not for Wrench being quick to snatch up the slack of your jacket, saving you from a broken nose at best and a cracked skull at worst.

The shouting of the cops reaches your ears as you scramble around your thigh, feeling the cotton threading knotted and frayed around jagged metal. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Wrench pants, fingers curling into your stomach. In a fight or flight response, you don’t spare any semblance of shame, going straight for your belt buckle and zipper. Wrench catches on quick. He hefts you up in his arms - fingers threaded under your breasts - so you can undo your jeans and wiggle out of them. It’s inelegant for a couple of seconds while Wrench hauls you up as you snap your bare legs back and forth, wedging the tight denim off your chucks.

What had felt like a beautifully cool evening, suddenly becomes freezing. 

A bullet chips at the brick to your left, making your heart stop. 

No time for your phone or keys. Horatio will have to send a kill signal to it, and you’ll have to spend all day getting keys recut, but everything can be replaced except your brain if those motherfucking cops get an actual shot off on you, or… Wrench for that matter.

You’re unsure how longer you both run, or where it is you end up. The road doesn’t look familiar nor does the abandoned backyard you both hop a brick fence to get to. There, shoved up against that wall of brick, you both hold your breaths as racing footfalls fly down the street. 

In the silence you close your hands over your mouth, sliding down the brick wall to the sharp grass. 

Behind your hands your breath rattles. Fear finally sets in while you wait and it’s more than welcome when Wrench sits down next to you and wedges an arm between you and the wall, side-hugging you in the darkness. 

His warm touch urges you closer until you’ve shifted as close as you can get, folding your legs between his thighs. Your jacket protects you from his studs and spikes while he turns, breathing heavy behind his mask, and wraps his other arm around your bent knees. It’s entirely too intimate, but it’s not every night you find yourself in your underwear, hiding from the cops… having just survived a few gunshots... oh, yeah… and a car crash.

In the darkness - in the silence, wrapped in Wrench’s body heat - your mind starts chugging on empty. That lizard brain comes online, and though you can hear the cops tracing your steps and the cast off of flashing lights on the abandoned house, you turn to Wrench and whisper so low it’s a wonder he even hears you, “Did you ever ask that waitress out - the one from the donut shop?”

It doesn't come out as anything but messy and abrupt; paced by quiet panting as your head continues to swim. For some reason, it feels like the perfect time to ask him about ‘her.'

Wrench doesn't reply, so you look up from the tight hold of his arms. 

Sad slashes look down at you before those double-x's are back and he shakes his head. He asks a question of his own only when the cop's footsteps have faded once again, but his synthesized voice is just as quiet as yours had been, “Marcus said he saw you with that tool in Gary’s Games… did you ever do anything? I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me about it anymore...”

Marcus? Trying to piss off Wrench? You almost laugh, wondering what type of convo that had been for Marcus to rat anyone out, especially you. 

Wrench looks at you with ellipses, “I mean, it's none of my business-”

“I didn't, Baron’s fine I guess… but you knew I didn’t go out with him, didn’t you? … fucking anarchist.”

He nods and admits quietly, “I haven't been to Ten Donuts in months ya know… Marcus goes for me.” 

Wrench’s awkward side is showing - that side you haven’t personally gotten since those first few weeks after your DedSec initiation. Aside from you and Sitara, he ducks away from girls and women alike, even watching that waitress from the furthest stool. The fact that he mumbles while his mask runs through sad slashes and hyphens makes your stomach flip and twist. Despite his sudden shyness, his arms tighten. The warmth of his tattooed forearm sweats against your bent legs…

Only a scant few inches from your nose, his throat bobs, working underneath the anarchy symbol peeking from the folds on his hoodie. You swallow, tongue wetting your lower lip as the adrenaline settles down in your lower belly; tight due to Wrench's embrace.

“So, you haven’t been going to Ten Donuts… and I haven’t gone out with Baron yet,” you start, staring at the thick swallow he makes, “what are we even talking about here?”

“Just… fuck it. Ya know, forget I said anything, please?”

It’s hard to disregard the warm flutter while the hard callus on the side of his thumb slides against the side of your knee, sending thrums of gentle pleasure through you. Just as hard, is ignoring the audible gulp he makes and the way his breathing leaks heavily through the mask while you’re both so close like this. It’s hard…

He’s hard. 

Bright double zero's blink, staring over the top of your head. Wrench knows you know what the rigid line against your hip is. Both of you know what it means, but the words get stuck in your throat, and though he’s dead quiet, it feels like he’s trying to say something, anything to kill the tension.

There’s the start of a sound in his throat, but the bushes against the other side of the brick wall rustle and out from the shrubbery comes the line of a flashlight, beaming across the yard.

“Fuck!” Wrench hisses, hips thrusting, pushing you forward only to hook his pinching fingers under your arms, yanking you up. 

The officer’s light shines in your eyes, and for a second you’re like a deer in headlights.

“I found them!”

It’s ridiculous; you think while Wrench runs with you down the side of the house, kicking half-rotten wood panels to dash out across the street. 

He’s got an erection the girth of your wrist, and you're kicking up gravel in red chucks and some flimsy black underwear, your ass bouncing with each long stride. The street cameras will have the - no doubt hilarious - recording of this moment on Nudle within a few hours. 

As you run with Wrench, fingers laced with his own, you decide that once you’re safe on the couch back at Headquarters, the first thing you're gonna do - after making a hot cup of coffee and getting some fucking pants on - is check for your half naked ass on the network and delete the fucker. No way are you gonna let tonight shame you any more than it already has. 

A few people stand smoking on the street corner, looking at their phones while they wait for a car or some shit - they pause as you and Wrench sprint across the street. One of the guys laughs, whistling loud enough that Wrench stops and drops your hand. He bows up, starting to stomp in the direction of the chortling group. 

“Wrench?! Don’t be a fucking idiot!” You shout, trading places so now you’re the one pulling you both away from the two cops that are yelling threats with their guns pointed up and their flashlights beaming towards you both. Wrench gets a threat about jumper cables and balls in before the guys are too far away to hear his cursing.

“-oh yeah! What’s up, fucksticks!? They won’t be laughing with busted balls-”

“Over here!” Already your voice is ragged and raw from running and it’s a welcome sight when the bay appears under the shine of the moon; water licking at the docks. The boats sway and bump, and in a heated moment of genius, you check behind for the cops, ignoring Wrench’s mad slashes. 

Seeing nothing but darkness, you drag him to a docked sailboat and hop in. 

Both of you stumble on the slick floor of the boat, crawling back to the port side where a hollow bench stuffed with a few life preservers and beach towels promises tucked-away-darkness. It’s not the worst place to hide. 

Wrench shoves you down to the floor and presses you back against the dark wall under the bench. He wiggles in after you just in time to hear the cops running across the water market. They blaze right on past, not even thinking to check the boats. 

It’s there, shoved up together that Wrench’s hands fold around you, one sweaty, hot palm touching the hem of your underwear - by accident or with intent you don't know. You wheeze as quietly as you can, delving your fingers down between his vest and hoodie, hugging his slim back until the thick beat of his heart presses against your breasts. 

Double hearts stare at you in the darkness, showering the dangerous spikes on his mask with limited light.

“Fuck, Wrench…” you murmur, wondering if he knows what’s displaying on his mask.

Right now is ordinarily the part of the chase where you’d kiss him; inflamed by the tension those cops had interrupted and the renewed adrenaline, but he won’t take the mask off, and you won’t spoil the high in your body by making him self-conscious. So, like some braindead succubus, you lean down and rake your tongue from the inked tip of his A all the way to the bottom of his jaw. The deep rumble that Wrench emits vibrates the tip of your tongue, and just like that, his hands are rushing down, passing your jacket to touch the bare skin of your ass. 

This is going to be nothing like you’ve envisioned, but you can’t stop yourself. 

His fingers curl, dig in, and you grunt, struggling to get your hands between both of your bodies so you can touch the hard dick he has pressed against your navel.

Sex, your mind barks. 

Sex, sex’sex’sex - over and over again it pants in your head and leaves you shaking as his stomach curls back, giving you the room you need to unbutton his jeans and hike the worn denim down his hips. Those hearts flip between stars and double zeros, changing so quickly you can barely keep track of what expression he must be wearing, but it’s all good. It’s perfect, and so is the hot cock that fills your palm after a quick tug on his silly boxers. 

You’re more surprised by the wetness leaking out of his cockhead than the dimple of metal threading under the head. Of course, he would...

“This is so fucking hot.” Wrench stutters, hissing tuned breaths like some punked up version of Darth Vader. It makes your mouth spread wide - makes you laugh softly and groan, dipping down again to kiss and suck the length of his throat while stroking his weeping cock.

You can still dream about what’s under the mask. Nothing can keep you from imagining the dirty things Wrench could do to you with his tongue, but this is as perfect as it could get and you push away your fantasy of locking lips with him on the wrench bench while he fucks you amongst scrap metal and parts.

“This is… this is real fucking hot - it could be the hottest thing I’ve ever done,” he babbles, talking fast enough you might have missed his static-laced words if not for how much more rapidly your brain is processing everything. That juicy adrenaline never had the time to cool, so it’s just burning hotter the more Wrench squeezes your ass; blazing when his jean-clad thigh pushes between your legs.

You bite the side of his neck, making his breath hitch, “God, fucking, dammit… scratch that - it’s most definitely the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

With a squeeze to his cock his voice stutters, going quiet but for one long groan. 

Against his neck you whisper, “You’re gonna have to be quiet… unless your idea of a good time is getting handcuffed.”

A spike pokes into your scalp as his mask moves while he chuckles, breathy and quiet enough, “You and some fuzzy handcuffs might out-hot this.” 

Wrench punctuates ‘this’ with a short slap to your ass, loud enough to echo around the fiberglass hull. 

“Fucker,” you curse, flattening your tongue against his pulse point, licking up the beating flesh until you taste the leathery cusp of his mask, “... just… don’t think less of me after this, alright? I’m usually harder to get out of my pants than this.”

 

Wrench whimpers, rolling his hips as your fingers dance along the metal bit threaded through the hot moist skin over his dick. His mask flips from ellipses to double hearts again, “You’re kidding, right? I mean, I can’t take the credit for the pants - that was all fence but… but I think I might be in love.”

At any other moment, you’d think he was kidding, but this situation is too ludicrous to think he’d add joking to it. Besides, his mask doesn’t lie. It’s one of the drawbacks of having a LED billboard on your face, you figure, but Wrench never seemed worried about people reading him. 

“Can you touch me?” you ask.

Wrench hesitates, which shouldn’t surprise you after living with him for so long, but it’s a one-eighty from the playful tone that had him slapping your ass earlier. 

Carefully, you flick your tongue against one of the long, dull-ended spikes on his mask, watching those double hearts blink into stars and back again. Releasing his cock, you twist at the shoulder, tugging his hand around your hip to push it between your thighs. It’s hot and sweaty under the shaded boat bench; stifling enough to make it hard to breathe. 

Wrench swallows, urging your knee up over his thigh so your spread open and- fuck…

The sound you make, as Wrench wedges past your underwear to stuff two fingers inside your slippery cunt, is loud enough to scare you. You clutch the lapels on his vest, tipping you hips up as he looks down between your thighs; digits curling upwards. It’s a bit inelegant - his touch - but your body is wrapped in enough endorphins to make you about the noisiest lay in the world.

The boat, on second thought, was a bad idea. Every sound and hard movement are magnified. 

The boat laps against the water, rocking as you both writhe together and the moans he pulls out of you sound like sirens. 

Images of the cops combing the docks only to find you and Wrench wrapped around each other, panting and moaning in the middle of a hot fuck makes a spike of pleasure run deep. You sob, stuff your face into the clammy heat of his neck and thrust down on his fingers, unable to keep yourself quiet when his thumb and that hard callus pushes against your clit.

“...haa’ah! You… fuck-” words get lost in a mess of tight moans as his fingers speed up, making sloppy sounds that would have embarrassed you had you not been on the crest of an orgasm. At the last second, Wrench stops, sliding wet knuckles against your tender flesh, yanking the damp fabric of your underwear to the side. 

He growls behind the leather and spikes; mad slashes displaying. 

The hot head of his cock brushes your clit, slips against your mound and like two horny teenagers in the back of some seedy drive in you both fumble with hitched breaths to angle him right… right there. Metal piercing and pulsating girth, stretches you open, sliding so deep your eyes roll back in the darkness. Wrench’s cock hit someplace too deep and yet not deep enough. 

You whine; run your fingers inside his hood, threading through sweaty, short hair and grip a fist full of bleached locks, holding on for dear life as his hips pull back and slap forwards. That first thrust begins a brutal rhythm of grinding and fucking that rocks the boat - the waves crash the sides of the hull as the hard wet smacking of flesh fills the tight space. 

“... my gawd,” you gasp, churning your hips down as he bucks up, panting like an overheated robot, hands grappling around your ass and the back of your thigh as sweat slides within his grip. 

“Here,” Wrench groans, pausing only long enough to pull you over him, spreading his knees to open up your thighs around his hips. His cock slips deeper as his fingers bruise around your waist. 

“Yeh’p, right there,” he sighs like a love sick puppy dog - flashing double hearts - before the mad slashes pop back up and you’re having to brace against the floor on your elbows while his hips slap up, thick cock ramming inside you. 

“Fuck!” He shouts, so loud you tense and swallow; face pinched in hard bliss.

“Ffff’uuuucking… fuck!” Wrench goes again, louder than before. You tug the side of his head, trying to shush him but just end up stuttering and moaning as he starts bringing your hips down into each upwards thrust, pounding some hidden spot with that stud of metal that makes your eyes pop open. 

“Holy fuck… holy fuck, W-wrenchhh… “ you whisper raggedly, unable to form the scream that's pulling at your throat - unable to do much but hold your fist in his hair, let him work you over his cock until your thighs and shoulders start to tremble. 

That ball of heat the density of the fucking sun shrinks, growing tight until Wrench starts groaning your name - not your cute little nickname, not LowRes, but your actual fucking name - and that ball expands and explodes. 

Spots of purple and light blue blink inside your vision, meshing with the LED stars that stare up at you. Wrench watches as you come, gushing synthesized breaths while your insides contract as your pleasure peaks. 

Wrench makes a startled noise that quickly becomes more scattered “fucks” and grunts.

He must have been waiting for you to cum, because as your body falls into his, deflating with bliss, he chuckles and braces a broad palm over your back, underneath the jacket. It’s sudden, but gentle, as he rolls you over on your back. 

The crisp air of the salty bay hits your sweaty face, breathing soft wind down into the stifling folds of your jacket collar. Up above, past Wrench’s ever changing emotes, you see the night sky. Stars blink and dark clouds - catching light from the inner city - float on by. 

“... you’ve brained me,” you whisper; eyes half closed. 

“Mission… fucking accomplished.”

Everything feels light and sweet, and you laugh against the sound of his heavy breathing and the gentle lapping of water against the boat. His cock stays hard inside you, feeling the dull contractions of your orgasm as they start to fade away. It feels like nothing else…

After catching his breath, Wrench falls to an elbow, tracing your moist lower lip with the hard edge of his thumb. His hips pressed forward, pulling back until you clench, worried he'll slip away, but Wrench has no intentions of that it seems. 

“If I ask you to keep your eyes shut,” he sighs as you wrap an ankle along the back of his thigh, “... fuck, do you think you can you keep them closed? A difficult task I know, given my expert sex skills.”

Yes. You nod, unable to stop yourself from giggling like some silly girl. Of course, you can, you think as your eyes fall shut, prepared to keep them closed despite whatever happens - despite his ‘sex skills.’ Anything Wrench needs. 

There's a quiet puff of breath behind his mask, and a pause in his thrusts as his thumbs slide away from your chin. You can hear the gentle slide of leather-on-skin and his freed voice as he curses. 

The unhindered grunt he makes just above your face sends a violent throng of pleasure up your belly. His hips start smacking between your thighs; soft and deep. The mask is off, and Wrench is someone else. 

You figured he would be, but it's such a change that - coupled with your loss of sight - you feel like you're dreaming. A moan slips between your lips and Wrench makes a groan. Your face flushes, knowing from the phantom touch that he's staring at you. He's been doing it all night that it shouldn't make you blush as you are, but it's different now. 

“Is it,” you breath through a wave of pleasure before swallowing down a groan, “can I touch it?” It sounds silly and way dirtier than the honest desire, but… you lay there in the darkness as Wrench fucks you gently and wait. 

There’s silence and a displacement of air as if he's nodding before he remembers you can't see him and swallows, “Yea, alright.”

He cums the moment you touch his face, sliding your palm up along the slope of his cheek until your fingertips reach the hard bone below his eye. Strands of wet hair tickle your fingers, and you can feel the tension in his jaw as he clenches his teeth, hissing.

You’ll worry about the implications of having sex with Wrench without a condom tomorrow. The feeling of his cum warming your insides is too incredible. Feeling his bare face - the hot wash of his cum and everything else has dulled your sense of danger to something more like his. 

Wrench makes the quietest, gratified whimper when his hips slap yours one final time. It brings you right there to the edge, so close that you whine and drag your free hand between your thighs, stroking your clit as his cheeks stretch under your palm. 

He's smiling, and behind your eyes, you try to imagine the picture he must paint as your thighs tremble and a remarkably dense climax grips your stomach. It makes your lashes flutter, but you keep your eyes squeezed and your thumb just at the edge of his grin until the pleasure peaks and fades. 

“Let’s see Jimmy Siska top this, huh?” Wrench huffs in a breathless chuckle, twisting his face inside your palm, kissing it. You're about to admit you love him when he pokes his tongue against your palm and slashes it fast enough to tickle. 

“F-fuck face,” you giggle, tugging your hand away only for him to snatch it back. Your breath catches as he pins it to the floor, coating you in body heat. 

You lay there, wondering if he's going to kiss you, but that would be too much too soon you realize as you hear the sound of leather slipping over skin.

“Alright, the sex incarnate is covered. It's safe, well… safeish,” Wrench says in the filtered voice you're more familiar. It's bittersweet, but you open your eyes to double hearts and can’t help but smile, only to purse your lips in a frown as he slips his soft cock out of you and all that cum starts leaking out. 

“Ugh,” you groan, watching him give you double nine's,” no, it's cool… but, maybe carry some condoms with you from now on, yeah?”

“Is that your way of saying you're down to fuck, because, not gonna lie, it's classy.”

“Dick,” you insult, but smile, sitting up on your elbows. 

The bay is empty, despite the loud noises you'd both made while fucking in this random person's boat after a high speed run from the cops. 

“What a crazy fucking night,” you mumble, eyeing the closed storefronts and moonlit dock. 

“Yeah,” Wrench sighs dreamily, looking at you with double carets, “you wanna ride this rodeo again sometime?”

You consider the loss of your phone, the near heart attack, the bullets fired, the car crash, your pulled shoulder, missing pants and then feel your belly flip as another trickle of cum slides out between your thighs. 

“Yeah…” you admit, grinning, “you free next weekend?”

“Fuck, you're kidding me right?”

Those hearts come back, and you can't help it, you lean up and kiss between the spikes covering where you figure his mouth is, whispering against the leather with a grin, “... guess you finally pulled the stick out of my ass.”

He mimics the intimate touch you'd place on his bare face earlier, thumbing the soft edge of your cheekbone and says, in his best Devon von Devon voice, “You know me, always taking one for the team. It’s a hard job, but somebody's gotta do it.”

You almost roll your eyes, but you feel too good to bother with it. 

“Next time, let's do it on the wrench bench,” you tell him off-handed, relishing the exclamation marks that pop up and his hitch of breath. 

“Fuck me then!”

Mmmm, fuck him indeed, you think as the two of you sneak like terrible ninjas out of the boat, hovering in the darkness until you're both home at Headquarters, concocting an elaborate tale for why your pants and phone are gone, and what the mysterious stain on Wrench’s jeans could be from… certainly not jizz.

What a fucking night, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hell, thanks for getting to the damn end. I just can't write anything short and sweet. 
> 
> Please, if you have time, leave me a comment and let me know what you thought. It's much appreciated, just like I appreciate Darth Fucamus (like my casual segway?) for combing over this beast so it flows much smoother than it would have otherwise (thanks, buddy). <3
> 
> Tumblr ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/


End file.
